memorandum, and muttered of fringe and buttons as she spilled tea on her
samples of Navy blue foulard.

A blind man. Of no interest save that he had a calm and gentle demeanor
and was the only one who didn't spill things. His face wore a grieved but
resigned look, as if something had died in his scrambled eggs. The iceman,
who had the hard, set jaw of a prize fighter was successfully eating steak,
and he welcomed the incoming fried potatoes, as one greets a new instalment
of a serial.

It was a fat and pink and lovely Warble who at last trotted back with
Petticoat's order.

The great specialist had an unbridled passion for pie, and throwing
restraint to the winds he had ordered three kinds. The wedges
Warble brought were the very widest she could wheedle from the head
pie-cutter--and Warble was some wheedler, especially when she coaxed
prettily for a big pieth of cuthtard.

Petticoat looked at her again as she came, pie-laden.

Her cap was a bit askew, but her eyes weren't. In her white linen dress and
apron and white cap, her little pink face looked to Petticoat's appraising
glance like a postage stamp on an expanse of white linen envelope.

Little did he think, as he took his custard pie that he was about to put
his foot in it. Yet he did.

"May I see you again sometime?" he said, ignoring the hat-check girl's
ogling and the iceman's cold stare.